Death of a Young Writer

The word came in an email even before another simmering hot August workday
here in Arkansas had really begun. The message had been expected for some
time, but that didn't make it any easier to take. Chris Battle had died.
His long struggle with cancer was over, thank the Lord. But we didn't feel
thankful. You never really do when the news first arrives. Maybe you know
you should, but it's all abstract that first day, maybe that first year.
Before the flood of healing memory has a chance to cover you, and wash
away the immediate pain.

His obituary would be headed Chris Battle, 1968-2013. He'd been a young
editorial writer here at the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette years ago, and was
still young (to some of us) when he died. Passed, as black folks say.
Though it doesn't sound right for someone so young in spirit.

In my mind, Chris was still the same Chris he'd been when he was just
starting to write editorials. A beautiful boy, a Georgia peach of a boy,
and yet already more knowing than his age would indicate, though he kept
his knowing way well-hidden, well-mannered young man that he was.

. .

Chris spoke -- and wrote -- in the measured phrases of those who enjoy
their craft, delight in it, play with it, turn it this way and that till
it might even become an art. Which was his goal. Yes, his speech was as
well-measured as his editorials. Yet you couldn't help but feel that he
was really measuring you, though he did his best to conceal it, being so
polite. Did I mention that he was a Southerner?

Not that Chris was one of those professional Southerners with hokey accent
to match. Scarcely a trace. But there was something about his natural
diffidence, his undifferentiated deference to all, that let you know where
he was from. He listened. Made a point of it. He was an asset to the
paper, and a promise. We hated to see him go. But you can't hold young
people back. And shouldn't.

. .

Chris would go onto become a political aide, then political consultant and
all the high-powered rest. It's called rising in the world even if it's
falling. It happens to some of the best of us and Chris was certainly one
of the best. Naturally he could tell a good story. It comes with the
(Southern) territory. But they were never stories about himself. That
would come too close to self-promotion. The stories were always on
himself. Self-deprecating is the too-well-worn term for it, one he would
never use. He hated the pat phrase. Of course he wrote long, being in love
with words, real words, the kind that have depth and layers and an
invitation to exploration, especially of oneself. Yes, he could tell a
good story and, even better, listen and remember when he heard one. One
day he told me a story I'll remember as long as I'm in this line of work.
Because it pretty well sums up what this whole editorializing business is
about.

It was a story about going fishing with his grandfather somewhere outside
Savannah. He'd just started writing editorials and -- did I mention he was
a young man? -- he was pretty darned impressed with himself, his new
title, and the whole business of Shaping Public Opinion and so droningly
on. He was telling the old man how important and responsible and all that
his job (and therefore he himself) was. You see, he explained, deciding
what stand to take on the Crucial Issues of the Day wasn't just a matter
of making simple decisions, but carefully weighing all the pros and cons
before taking a -- what do they call muddying the issues now? -- a
sophisticated, nuanced position. Because, don't you know, it's not a
question of just choosing between right and wrong, and making simplistic
black-and-white distinctions. There are so many shades of gray in between,
and a newspaper has to take them all into account before delivering its
solomonic judgment, don't you know?

The old man just made another cast. He didn't say anything. For a while.
Then all he said was, "Son, there's always a right and wrong. You just
have to find what it is."

Yep, that about sums it up. And young as he was, and would ever be, Chris
Battle knew wisdom when he heard it.

. .

That was Chris Battle, a Jack Burden right out of "All the King's Men,"
now come home to Burden's Landing at last. After a long, harrowing journey
through the night. "Chris died this morning at 8:00 a.m.," the email from
Dena said. "His mom, dad and I were all with him when he passed. We're
grateful that he's no longer in pain."

Home is the fisherman, home from the river, his four-year fight over. "In
lieu of flowers," said the email, "we ask that donations be made toward
kidney cancer research at Johns Hopkins Sidney Kimmel Cancer Center:
www.hopkinscancerresearch.org. If you specify that the donation is in honor of Chris Battle, they will know to direct funds toward Dr. Hans Hammers' kidney cancer research."

The story isn't all sad. Not at all. It ends in hope. It ends with his two
little girls, who must be big girls by now. How old can they be -- 9 and
4? Their presence shimmers even at this distance, the way their father's
does even after all the years and youth that have passed since he was
here. He is unchanged. For nothing good is ever lost. Like Chris, it just
goes on.